


By Fortune or by Chance

by Wil



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Le Morte d'Arthur
Genre: Abduction, Canon Compliant, Chivalry, F/M, Rescue Mission, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:10:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wil/pseuds/Wil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Palomides has a plan, carries it out and sees it go awry, predictably. An exploration of his personage as much as a retelling of a well-known episode, in which Palomides' motives for keeping damosel Bragwaine and tricking la Baele Isoud are clarified. As usual, Mark is a coward, Palomides is crafty, Bragwaine is reasonable, and Isoud is too proud.</p><p><b>Teaser:</b><br/>"Wilt thou not take me with thee to Cornwall, good sir?" the girl asked again, just as he was mounted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Fortune or by Chance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [torch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/torch/gifts).



> Yuletide 2009 story for Torch! Happy holidays!
> 
> A re-explored scene from Helen Cooper's translation of the _Morte_:  
> And by fortune Sir Palomides found Dame Bragwaine, and there he delivered her from the death, and brought her to a nunnery therebeside for to be recovered   
> (Book 8, Chapter 29)

The clash of swords had been loud. The thugs' flight had been quick. "By my faith," the damosel said as he freed her from her captors, "Certainly, Queen Isoud shall reward such a brave knight as thee."

He lifted his visor and smiled. "Aye," he said, softly. "I reckon she will."

It was fortune that set him on Bragwaine's path. It was fortune, he decided, that put in his hands the way to Isoud's heart.

* * *

They had been riding long and hard, and both knight and damosel were full sore.

"I sore repenteth, sir knight, thou should let me go back to court, aye," the maiden groaned quietly. "'Tis poorly done to keep a maid in one's hands, when one is unchristened."

The Saracen knight ignored the servant's plea. She was Bragwaine, who had La Baele Isoud's confidence, who knew her heart. Bragwaine, who was closer to his lady than he would ever dream to be. He took a breath and did not scoff.

"Is it so important to thee?" he asked under his breath. For all his years in Britain, he still felt his grasp of their tongue to be poor at times, no matter how fair-spoken he knew himself to be.

"Aye, more important than it is to thee, good sir," she drawled. The girl sneaked a sideways look at him, turning a little over her shoulder. "Art thou not fearful for thy soul?"

He shook his head. "I know what is in my heart," he said quietly. "And I know of what quality is my soul."

"They say thou'rt yet damned without a christening, sir," she said. "Hast thou then a notion to go to hell?"

His hold on the harness tightened a little. "Leave it, fair damosel. My soul is mine to lose or keep, not thine." He was full sore of all this talk of christening, if truth be told. He shook his head. "Be silent now, ere I lose my patience."

Perhaps it was his tone. Perhaps the girl had as much sense as wit. At any rate, she remained silent as they neared the nunnery.

That night, they supped separately, and there were no more words between them.

In the monk's cell where he spent the night, Sir Palomides contemplated what was to come. Having Isoud to himself – such desire burned within his heart and soul – yet he felt that his attempt, any attempt, as desperate as it may be, would be a waste.

So why had he not taken the girl back to Tintagel? The answer was simple. She did not know him. Isoud had never as much as laid an eye on his person, though ever he strove at the tourneys, wishing to do well by her, to win her favor. Even a handkerchief from her hand to tie on his helmet would do. He wished for nothing more than a smile from the Queen.

She did not know him. The thought plagued him as he twisted and turned on his cot, eyes closed. If only – and the dreams came, Isoud smiling at him as she did at Tristram in his waking hours. Isoud whispering his name. Isoud's blond hair brushing against his wrist. Isoud's skirts swaying in a manner made only to provoke him. But it was only a dream – only an illusion sent by what tricksters the night could yield. She did not know him.

When he woke, Palomides knew what to do – his eyes were full of the joyful assurance that came with a confident plot as he harnessed his horse and the squires dressed him.

"Wilt thou not take me with thee to Cornwall, good sir?" the girl asked again, just as he was mounted.

"Nay, nay, not yet, but an thy lady queen wish it, thou wot well thou willt be going soon," he replied soothingly. He did not wish to harm her. He did not wish to frighten her. "The nuns will keep thee safe. Fear not – these are holy women."

She did not protest, only went, dragged away by a pair of stern matriarchs.

* * *

As he rode back with Isoud astride on her palfrey, Sir Palomides did not believe how well his plot had unraveled. It had been easy to trick Isoud into a promise. It had been yet easier for her husband to ensure that she keep it – King Mark seemed little inclined to worry over. Only a month, Palomides had promised himself – some time for them to know each other better, so that she had the chance to refuse him in full knowledge. Then he would return the damosel and the Queen to Cornwall, if Isoud should wish it.

So dreadful was the cowardice of the King, he mused to himself – how could one as awful as he have a wife as beautiful as her? Of course, he knew how. He never quite understood how Tristram could surrender such a prize to so unworthy a keeper. Had the knight taken Isoud for his wife as was intended, he might have hated him less, perhaps. He was a passing good knight, after all, the best of them all, said the small folk. Had he jousted with Launcelot before? But Palomides glimpsed a lock of golden hair and everything else seemed irrelevant.

"Wilt thou keep me long?" Isoud sighed irritably. "'Tis ill done to have tricked me so, if truth be told. By fortune or by chance, Sir Tristram shall come and fetch me."

Her nonchalance and assurance were almost an insult, yet he only felt anger and hatred towards the knight. "I would be grieved full sore an he were remiss, my lady," he replied curtly. "For I've yet to wage a battle ."

Oh, perhaps if he were done with the knight... the humiliation he'd been dealt in Ireland had yet to be healed, he reckoned. How terrible to be so orgulous – it was poorly done to feel thus.

"Aye, ere you strike him, you will be dead," she replied proudly. "For there is no man stronger than Sir Tristram. Hast forgotten thy defeat, good sir? 'Tis true that a false knight would sooner forget than learn, and more so for one unchristened such as you."

"Ah, lady, me sore repenteth," Palomides replied, "that thy needs must be so unjust. By my troth, I would not devour thee, neither here nor in our dwellings."

"Oh, nay? An it please you, sir, pray deliver me from thy company, for thy view is sore to mine eyes yet, and I shall render the spirit unless Sir Tristram comes to my sight again."

Anger grew stronger in him, and yet he could do nothing but stare at her – the pain in his heart grew, and he knew full well that should Sir Tristram fall upon him, he should soon yield or die. There was comfort in the thought. "By my troth, lady, I only wished for you to know me and I you, and wot you well that I've not laid a hand on you, when I could have done so in the past fortnight."

She shrugged and stared away, and he knew once more that she was lost to him, as she had ever been.

* * *

When the knight arrived, he rejoiced – death, perhaps, was awaiting him. He did not worry to keep Isoud in one way or another, for he believed his deliverance to be upon him.

When he found that Isoud had fled, he made haste. A lady such as she should never go undefended. Sir Adtherp's horse was easy to track and his castle loomed in the distance. Yet the drawbridge was up, and the guards would not let him pass.

He sat on the grass, at a loss for action, and waited. He prayed for deliverance, by fortune or by chance.

Yet it came not, and his heart remained full sore. For Palomides, there would be ever more than one Questing Beast.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to the wonderful people who beta'd this story, Georgina, Tami and Elise.
> 
> Any remaining mistakes are my own.


End file.
